Ephemeral
by ink inspire
Summary: Leta and Newt were simply ephemeral.
1. officium

_Leta_ was quiet today.

Newt peered at her through his mop of hair, squinting against the sun in an attempt to hide what he was doing. The grass tickled his bare feet, and he wriggled them, trying to allow his body to become cocooned with the ground below him, as they had so many times before through the years. It was warm, yes, and by all means it was a good day ― yet, something was amiss; Leta had always been reticent, but not to him. _Never_ to him.

Peals of laughter pierced their silence, and Newt automatically glanced towards the Black Lake. Newt's mouth began to curve upwards, but the weight on his chest had crushed any desire to laugh out of him. He bit his lip, catching a glimpse of the girl who lay beside him, a glumness having stole all the glitter from her eyes. Something was evidently wrong; everything had been golden and amber before the Easter holidays, and Newt felt as though he was floating above the ground with a lightness akin to feathers and a whispered _wingardium leviosa_ in a way that only Leta could create.

It was not to say that Newt had been an unhappy child: in fact, he had lead a conventionally normal childhood with his mother ― however ordinary life could be with a hippogriff breeder for a mother ― and his older brother Theseus. He would always remember his mother's roseate countenance turn ever redder with pride as he nursed a temporarily crippled hippogriff back to health. His relationship with Theseus was slightly more complicated, in the way that relationships with older brothers could often manifest. He was the golden boy, the perfect student and son with the promise to work at the Ministry. Newt had frequently wished he could bottle the wisps of inferiority that accumulated over the years of being . . . _less_ and throw it into the centre of the Black Lake. He loved his brother, of course, but it did not help when Theseus exhibited his disapproval of Newt's pastimes.

He always felt _less_ next to him.

However, he never felt that way with Leta: a fellow outcast and a lover of magical beasts, he felt that it was the most natural thing in the world for them to come together in friendship. He remembered how terrified he was when he first came to Hogwarts, cold and shivering, thinking that he was too eccentric for people to bother with. Several weeks later, Leta had found him jostling a puffskein in his coat pocket in the corridor en route to Potions. His body had frozen, his first instinct being to hide the creature in case the Slytherin had decided that today was not his day, and the second being a familiar fear that she was going to make fun of him. To his immense surprise, it was neither of these things. In fact, she had smiled widely at him, and motioned him to the Clock Tower. Albeit nervous, the tips of his ears red, he had stuttered answers at her questions, thrown at her wide-eyed interest into his hobby (was she making fun of him?). Eventually, the stiffness of his shoulders had died, and for the first time in forever, he spoke without preamble. For the first time in forever, he could look into someone's eyes without succumbing to the urge to move away. There, they had begun their friendship, in the way that two people only could in an attempt to avoid being given detention for truancy.

Leta took a sharp exhale beside him and he snapped his head so quickly towards her that he had to bite back a gasp of pain at the crick that had developed there, in the space between his trampled collar and the edge of his hair. Her eyes shone with suppressed tears and he denigrated himself silently for being so preoccupied with their past that he had momentarily forgotten about their present. "Leta," he breathed, sitting up and reaching a hand out to her.

She put a shaking hand up ― although it was without any sense of strength ― barring him from her. He had to swallow the hurt that grew from her ability to push him away, before she dropped it and turned her head away from him. From his angle, he could still see her blinking rapidly. Her tears fell on the tips of the blades of grass, and they shone like gems beneath the caress of the sun's fingers. Her chin wobbled in a way that Newt knew hurt with the singular strength it took to prevent the sentiments from spilling over lips.

He tried again. "Tell me what's wrong, _please_."

"I'm fine," her voice was unnaturally high, and yet, unbidden, a tremble convulsed a note that had fallen from her mouth. He could tell that she was embarrassed for it. Newt steeled himself, pushing the knot of his tie down, the fabric coarse. "You haven't been fine since you came back from the Easter holidays."

"I'm just . . . stressed." She blinked fast. "Because of the exams, and everything."

"You're lying," he said quietly, looking down at his palms. He hated feeling like this ― _stupid, stupid, stupid_! For all his care of great beasts, he had no knowledge of human comfort. "You were happy before you go onto the train―" (she had kissed him goodbye on the cheek and he had stammered, the place where she had touched turning splotchy) "―and then you came back and you weren't. Something happened with your family, didn't it?"

The chirping of birds swam through the field, and he could distantly hear the splashing of water.

"I hate them," she finally turned her head to look at him straight in the eye, and something in her abject brokenness shattered his heart. "Oh, Leta," he murmured, his breath leaving his body with the weight of it. She upturned her hand, still on the ground, and he placed his palm against hers as she threaded her fingers delicately around his. Then, she lifted their woven hands and placed them against the waltz of her cardiac organ.

There was something so remotely peaceful about this, Newt thought. Something so intrinsically _right_. Two neglected people who came from families who could not be more different, with a common love for all living beings, lazing beneath the radiant light listening to the thrumming of Leta's heart.

"Did they hurt you badly again?"

As expected, the girl bristled. She hated that word, and he knew it. She thought it to be normal, since all pure-blood children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were often raised the same way. When she had first shown the dark marks on her body, Newt had been horrified. His dismay had scared her off, and he had to work hard ("did you know Jarveys eat _gnomes_? _Gnomes_? That's terrible!" and other variations of "the new edition of the Monster Book of Monsters has a foreword by Edwardus Lima!") to bring her back. Nonetheless, he deliberately used the word because he did not wish to normalise it. It was not normal, and it was not okay. She had to know that nobody deserved it ( _did_ she know?).

"Funnily enough, I would have preferred it," she snorted, and then, upon looking at his expression, sighed. She parted her lips, air whistling through her teeth as sound barrelled out into the world. He had the horrible sensation that this would alter everything. Her eyes flicked upwards, and then she uttered it: "my parents were talking at me of marriage prospects."

For a moment, his mind was tantalisingly empty until, like a club at the back of the head, the gravity of what she said pummelled into him. His chest tightened, and, humiliatingly so, warmth burned in his eyes. The world fell away at his feet, and had he been standing, he feared he would have collapsed. The sound of his laughing classmates muted out as if he were in a bubble, and his stomach turned as though he'd been _levicorpus_ -sed. Unknowingly, he had begun to draw away from her, but he was brought back, in an explosion of colour and cacophony, into the real world when she clutched his hand back against her skin like Newt was her anchor, her eyes shining. "Newt ― please don't ― don't walk away from me. Not now. _Please_." He had never seen her like this before.

"Never," he did not even need to think about it.

When she smiled at him, albeit through a haze of shattered glass, Newt thought she was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

"But you're so young." That's all he could think of, the injustice of it. "You have so many years ahead of you, so why are they talking to you about this now?"

"I am a Lestrange, and my father's heir." She replied tonelessly, the wind ruffling her dark hair. "I have a duty to do." Then, she laughed loudly, bitterly. "I am to get married to a man I do not care about, and push out eight babies and try not to kill myself out of misery in the process."

Newt winced at her acridity, something within him plummeting at the thought of her father capturing her free, adventurous spirit and shackling her to what he believed were her duties to the Lestrange family.

"When are you ― h-how are you ―" the words stuck in his throat. Leta simply looked at him, and seemed to know what he meant as she visibly deflated. "When we graduate Hogwarts." The bite had escaped her, and all that was left was hopelessness.

He clenched a fist at his side. He wanted to scream.

"Newt," she spoke, suddenly agitated, "I won't be the only one. Eireen is after me. Eireen ―"

If it were possible, the feeling that had been clawing at his throat, that horrible strangling feeling, gnawed at him until he was red and raw. He opened his arms instinctively, and although awkwardness gnashed its teeth at him, when she wilted against him, her forehead against his neck, he knew he had done the right thing. He embraced her fiercely, blinking, hoping he was not failing miserably at comforting his only true friend. He held her, and they swayed on the spot, as he tried to press back all her pieces into the cavities of her body.

"We'll look after her," he said, his words reverberating. "I promise."

He could feel her smile sadly against his skin. "I believe you mean that."

Of course, both of them knew that these were hollow vows: Eireen was as trapped as Leta. And like Leta, her baby sister was manacled to the ancient, gripping roots of the Lestrange's family tree. Especially after Corvus Jr. was lost to the winds of the Americas, and Corvus Sr. had lost his only male heir, there was no facilitating the metamorphosis of his daughters' wishes.

Leta leaned back and looked at him. "Newt, I-I wish . . ."

Newt's hard thudded so loudly that he flushed red at the thought of her hearing it. "I want you to choose life."

"What?"

"You have so much love to give," her voice was soft, and the most vulnerable it had ever been, "the world would be a much better place if it had more people like you in it."

"What, awkward, bumbling-everywhere, clumsy-footed Newt's of the world?" He scoffed, not unkindly.

She gave him that signature Lestrange smile, that she somehow made all hers. "You think of yourself too little. What I mean to say is that you should be happy. Choose to do what you love." What she said next was spoken so softly that Newt thought he had imagined it. "―even if it means leaving me behind."

The thought was so otherworldly, so bizarre and so utterly nonsensical that Newt could not even formulate a coherent sentence. _A world without Leta Lestrange_. "Are you ― are you _completely out of your mind_?"

Heat slapped him, and he struggled to keep the outrage from his words, at the offence she caused him at merely insinuating he could drop her, and his memories of them, as easily as a first-year _alohomora_.

"We've always wanted to find out if mooncalves really existed. You're going to have to make that trip on your own." She was speaking so quickly that her words nearly strung together in an inelegant bow. "Or an Antipodean Opaleye? You're going to have to save up money to visit New Zealand."

"Leta, stop."

"You need to send me a photograph of a sea serpent from the Atlantic. I've always wanted to see those. Um, pun unintended of course."

"Stop."

"You need to be okay! Otherwise _everything_ will be for _nothing_!"

The laughter from the lake stopped, and he could feel their eyes on them. Abruptly, frothing heat arose to the surface. Couldn't they mind their own business?

"You never met a monster you couldn't love."

Newt stilled.

She sniffled, and pressed her hand against his shoulder to the ground. Consequently, she placed her head on the corner of Newt's chest, his heart beating wildly at the barrage of information that had been flung at him in a matter of minutes. "I'm tired, Newt," her voice was barely audible. "I'm tired of thinking, of resisting. I just ― I don't want whatever's happening out there to interfere with us. You're the only one I can . . . be myself with. So, can we just _be_ , right now? Please?"

"Leta, I ―" He could not say it, but perhaps that's why he was not a Gryffindor. She was silent for so long that he thought she'd let it go, but finally, she murmured, indistinct: "I know. Me too."

And Leta, once more, fell into silence.

* * *

 _I've been fascinated with her ever since Leta was introduced to **Fantastic Beasts**. Much to my astonishment, there are numerous people from the fandom who seem to hate her even though she's never even been in the film corporeally. Then again, I don't know why that should surprise me: this is often the case when a female character is introduced who could potentially alter the dynamic of the leading romantic pairing (I'm looking at you, Riverdale). I've seen adult women (well, I assume they're adults? But they could be younger) slut-shame her, and call her all sorts of names, and vilify her even though they portray her as a 13-year-old in their fanfiction_.

 _Anyway, I've sort of created my own Leta in my head, with her own relationships and experiences separate from the canon franchise. I don't think she's a saint, but I wrote this in one sitting where she's at her most vulnerable; this is how I interpret her_.

 _I hope all of you enjoyed this little character study of sorts. This is the first time in a long time where I'm publishing something. Let me know what you think_!


	2. amare

**_amare_**

 _For_ the longest time, Leta Lestrange thought she was incapable of love.

Astringency, choking and wicked, coated her heart. Its pulse glowed green, forming a fist as it squeezed its sickened tendrils until what was left was an iced opal. She drowned beneath the glutinous bitterness ― against the injustice of her mother's untimely end, her father's consequent neglect, and the freedom of muggle children she spied upon out of her bedroom window. She wasn't supposed to, but she could not help it. If she did not know her father, or had been naive, she would have never believed that he chose this particular room for her to bludgeon her with sentiments of muggles' inferiority. At least, that was his intent, yet Leta, a child at the time by all means, had little concept of hierarchy. All she absorbed in his 'lessons' was that they were free to laugh and have fun, and she was not. "You are a Lestrange," he would bellow (much like a bull, she imagined― although she dared not to laugh in front of him) "you are better than them."

Ah, yes. Freedom was a foreign concept she understood from a very young age.

Hatred was another one of her faithful companions. Somehow stronger than its acidic cousin, Leta seemed perpetually coated in it when her father's new wife, Clarisse Tremblay, strolled in through the front door with her poor dead mother's diamond ring on her finger. The out-of-place sight, and the dishonour her father bestowed on the late Laurena by marrying someone new within the approved forty-days of mourning left Leta's mouth sour. It made her wonder what kind of woman would agree to marry a man whose dead wife's body had not even been entombed yet. In fact, what kind of _man_ was her father?

When the leaves outside her window turned burnt amber three times over, Leta began questioning things. It didn't help when they went on a holiday and everyone stared at Clarisse with her father, or that ambiguous men had rapped his shoulder with an appraised brow in suggestion. Had he been unfaithful to Laurena whilst she was still alive?

What if they had her killed so that he could marry Clarisse?

Although she had more common sense than to ask, the doubts had already cleaved a chasm between her and the new Lestrange family. It certainly did not help when she accompanied them on their blasted 'family' dinners and received strange looks because she was of a darker complexion to fair Clarisse and her father. Notably, the press and pure-blood families knew who she was ― obviously! ― it enraged her to no end when others would think that she was adopted. That she was different. _Lesser_. Subordinate. She was a Lestrange, through and through! The thought that Clarisse The Cow was deigned more . . . suitable, than Leta or her mother made her want to scream. She was more of a Lestrange than her. She was more of a Lestrange than her. _She was more of a Lestrange than her_.

Then why did she always feel so small?

Why did she want to sob and run to her mother when Clarisse would give that tinkling laugh, light and airy, with a champagne flute in her hand and murmur something to her friends about Leta? Why did she hate herself and the way she looked so different from her father? Why did she want to jump on the Nimbus 1900 and fly away, away into the stars?

Sometimes, Leta thought that if she died, nobody would come to the funeral ― if one was even organised.

 **..**

Leta knew what love was when Corvus Jr. was born.

His pink little feet waved in the air, and his fingers curled into a loose fist as his lungs powered with the might of Merlin. She did not think the wailing was awful; in truth, it was nice to finally have something _move_ in the manor, even if it was trembling notes of cacophony dotting the air. Leta's dead home had _life_ again.

Leta smiled softly when she caught Corvus' light blue eyes through his paper-thin lids. The bawling ebbed away, and she even heard Clarisse's sharp intake of air. Almost on instinct, she lifted her hand and let Corvus wrap his tiny fingers around her pinky. _He has such small nails_ , she remembered thinking fondly. "Hello, there," she whispered (people always spoke softly around babies, so she assumed she had to do the same), "my name is Leta, and I'm your big sister."

The baby cooed, and Leta lifted her head, automatically meeting Clarisse's gaze. Her usually powdered face was flushed and rather sweaty, but at the moment Leta allowed herself to think that she looked quite pretty. It was soft, and for a brief flicker of flame, the woman and the girl smiled at each other. Leta's whole body warmed. _Maybe we can be a real family now_ , she thought.

The door sprung open, the knob hitting the wall behind it with a thunder. Almost immediately, little Corvus commenced to cry again, and Leta startled to the point where she nearly dropped him. She turned on her heel to face her father, who stared at the baby in her arms with a feverish adoration that, like a layer of glacial snow, robbed her of the tenderness she embodied. "My son," he rasped, his hands held out. Uncomfortable, she looked at Clarisse, who blinked and reached out to take Corvus in her arms, staring pointedly away from her. The round warmth diminished from her skin as he was taken away. Shifting her shoulder to accommodate the baby, Clarisse leaned tiredly against the bedstead as Leta's father rushed to them to hold one side of the infant, threading his hand through the white linen that wrapped around Corvus to keep him warm.

"My son," he said again, and Leta felt upended, winded, and hot pin-pricks of pain burnt at the corner of her eyes. She bit her cheeks to draw blood, praying fervently that she would not embarrass herself in front of her father and his wife. "My heir and my joy."

Her vision blurred as she watched her father with his new family.

 **..**

The second time it happened, Clarisse's room smelled of old crimson, a fetid stink sticking itself to the threads of her duvet, to the petals on the wallpaper and to the minuscule gaps in the wood of her dressing table. Leta swayed, thrown off by the scent, gripping the door frame as she took in the harried midwife and her assistants running around the chamber, stuffing bloodied linen in wicker baskets besides the roaring fire.

Leta steeled herself and dropped her hand away from the polished frame. "Why aren't the windows open?" She questioned with the confidence of someone who was used to commanding attention when they walked into a crowded room. A stocky woman, her face like aged parchment, wiped her hands on her apron, albeit to no avail. Leta crinkled her nose when she walked slowly towards Leta, who, although still a child, stood straighter than the helpers. "Miss Lestrange," even her voice was as course as skin pulled against gravel, "your mother is quite weak from the childbirth. She is running a fever, and it is far too cold to risk it."

Leta spoke calmly, enunciating her words: "surely the heavy . . . _aroma_ cannot be good for my father's wife. Nor the child."

The midwife paused, briefly flickering her eyes to Leta, who knew that she noted her careful choice of words. "I would advice that Mrs Lestrange receive extensive treatment, perhaps from ―"

"Are you not capable?"

" ― St. Mungo's. I'm afraid that I cannot help more than I have."

"Will she die?" Leta continued, tilting her head. She parted her lips, noting the way the midwife swallowed, as though perturbed by her coldness. She sniffed, swallowing the kernel of guilt that grew on the edge of her tongue and her oesophagus; she hadn't meant to sound disengaged or cruel. She was simply inquiring. Sometimes she forgot that not everyone were like the Lestranges, who exuded perfection and unasailableness and she forced her face to mellow and cast her eyes downwards, as if penitent. "No," the midwife answered slowly, gauging Leta, "not if she gets professional attention."

The girl nodded, the very image of the devoted daughter. Silent, terse second passed by as the information danced around in her head. The back of her neck prickled, and she forced the words out of her mouth: "is it a boy?"

The moment she uttered that sentence, she beat herself up over it, for the childish manner in which she intoned it: vulnerable, reproachful and insecure. _You're a Lestrange_ , she imagined her father scold, _you're above this_.

The midwife paused, and Leta dug her nails into her palms, squeezing her eyes shut. "No, it's a girl."

She wished she had more control over herself, but she couldn't help but snap her head up, sucking in the heavy air, her eyes lit with hope. "A girl?" Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, trying to be as silent as possible. Finally, the midwife smiled, the corner of her eyes crinkling. "Yes, sweetheart, a girl," and she put a warm hand on Leta's bony shoulder as though she could see right through her.

Leta nearly cried out loud at the term of endearment, quelling down the flaming desire that she wanted this woman to be her mother, instead of the corpse on the bed, and forced the threatening emotions down. "Can I see her?"

"Of course; you're her family."

Leta breathed.

There, coddled in knitted white, lay a baby so small and so peaceful that Leta thought that, surely, everything she'd suffered was worth it, if only for this moment. She had tufts of dark hair, like sea foam, on her blotchy red head. The contrast nearly made her giggle. She was so tiny that the older Lestrange's heart clenched at the sight of her delicate nose, and the fine strands of hair that poked out from her lids, leaving petite shadows on her skin, which was so rubicund that she almost resembled a tomato.

A cute tomato, though.

"Do you want to hold her?"

Leta blinked, having forgot the woman beside her and nodded, trying not to look too eager. It did not seem to work because the midwife chuckled, although Leta found that she did not mind. The baby fussed as the woman lifted her out of the cot and placed her gently in Leta's arms, which shook in anticipatory terror. "You need to hold the back of her head. Like this, see? Support the neck a bit more ― yes, look at you, sweetheart, you're a natural!"

Leta just wanted to cry, but she thought it a bit inappropriate considering that she was not the baby, and the baby in question was serene in contrast. She bit her lip, keeping the tears at bay, "you're so nice. I've never met someone like you before."

She thought it was a compliment, but to her dismay, the midwife frowned. "If you don't mind me asking ―"

Corvus Sr. strode in with his namesake, who, like all toddlers, struggled with the effects of gravity and shoes. Leta held her breath as her father approached her. The midwife stood by her, and in a completely stupid way, she felt as though she was protecting her, although she knew it was because the cot was besides her. "Congratulations, Mr Lestrange, you have a healthy baby girl!"

Her father faltered in his steps.

 _Ah_ , Leta thought hatefully, her eyes narrowed, _there it is_.

Perhaps it was simply the bitter side of her, but Leta believed that, had the room been empty, her father would have turned around and left. Instead, he straightened his golden-buttoned coat, the faint scent of cognac emanating from him (obviously the men downstairs would have been celebrating the arrival of the second son), and pulled the cloth away from the baby's face, which had crinkled against Leta. He gingerly brushed his hand against her cluster of hair and for a mere moment, the two daughters and their father were in a little bubble of their own.

Then he cleared his throat and stepped away, the feelings shattered. Leta focused on the child in her arms and the sound of the midwife instructing Corvus Sr. on the treatment of his wife floated away. All that Leta could hear was the slow breathing of her little sister. "Daddy," she called out, the term awkward in her mouth, and judging by the surprised stiffness of his shoulders, was awkward to him too. "Can I name her?"

Stunned silence pervaded the room, and she realised that the helpers in the room had stopped moving. _Why? Did I say something wrong_?

"Of course, Leta." Her father cleared his throat, and nodded rigidly at no-one in particular before walking out the room.

A small hand pressed against her leg, and although this was something she usually reprimanded him for, she looked down at her little brother, and smiled sweetly. "Baby?" he blubbered through a mosaic of teeth and gums. "Cor," she bent down and gently touched the side of her head to his, "say hello to Eireen Lestrange."

 **..**

The third time wasn't really the third time. She had felt similarly before, but this time, the sentiment hit her like a sack of troll dung.

Their clothes stuck to their skin, which shone unusually due to the moisture that the mist had proffered. Leta's hair, which hung by her face, was frazzled by the humidity, the place where her tie had been bending the tresses abnormally. Silence pervaded the headmaster's office so much so that the air in her lungs hung heavily, akin to the loud lumbering of her heart. Blood rushed past her ears, and she thought it a miracle that Headmaster Dippet did not point it out.

She dared to peek at him from the corner of her eye, but Newt adamantly did not look her way. She wanted to shake him, shout at him, and furiously ask him why.

"It was me, Professor." He repeated, and Leta wanted to double over, an itchiness in her throat declaring its urgent need to purge. She did not know what gifted her the strength to speak ― perhaps it was the way her best friend stared straight ahead, a strange glint in his countenance that looked awfully like driven resolution. _Bravery_. She'd always thought him to have a quiet courage that others lacked, one she found rather beautiful, but never like this. Newt often found it difficult to meet people's eyes, so a part of Leta was proud of him for standing up against so many authoritative adults in the room.

"No." Her voice was raspy from disuse, yet still demanded attention from the others in the room. "It was all me; I dragged him into it. It was my idea to use the Jarvey."

"Newt, is this true?" Professor Dumbledore, their Transfiguration teacher, looked only at him. Leta bristled. Did he not believe her? He needed verification? Her word was not enough? The insult brushed her the wrong way, and she moved her jaw, standing straighter. It was no secret that the man had blatant favourites. He had never been unkind to her, but there was always a difference in the way he spoke to Newt and the way he spoke to her. There were rumours that Professor Dippet was grooming him to be the next Headmaster, and his presence in something that did not concern him was certainly a confirmation.

Corvus Sr.'s glare radiated a hole through her and she bit her lower lip to control her shaking. Clarisse, on the other hand, simply stood stoically beside Corvus, her manicured nails gripping her handbag with so much strength that she was waiting for them to snap in what Leta could not differentiate between anger, annoyance, or simply just boredom. However, the Slytherin stood up straight and raised her eyes from the ground, the front of her hands touching her back. This was the truth ― her honour demanded it. Her honour _as a Lestrange_ demanded it, even if her father could not comprehend the intentions behind it.

 _Then again, when has he ever understood me_? Leta questioned detachedly.

Professor Dippet pitched an eyebrow, a condescending scoff expelling itself from his mouth. "What an odd circumstance," he exclaimed, leaning backwards on his desk, "both seem eager to profess their culpability!"

"Leta's just trying to be a good friend," Newt spoke hurriedly, and when Leta began opening her mouth to contradict him, he interjected again, "she's protecting me."

Leta turned and beseeched him with her eyes, and Newt briefly caught it before staring at his shoes. _What in Merlin's name is he doing_?

This time, her father interrupted with a bitter laugh that sent shivers down her back. "Why would a Lestrange associate themselves with the likes of you?"

For a millisecond, she stilled, her brain unable to catch up with what words it had just processed. Rage slapped her next, and her chest heaved at the injustice of it. She stared at the side of his head, stupidly hoping he could sense that boiling, frothing hatred that his eldest felt for him. When she gazed at most important person in the room, to ask for his forgiveness through their bond, Leta nearly missed the way Newt deflated, his eyes shining at the insult, and she had to dig her nails into her palms to stop herself from going to him. "It's clear," her father continued, "that _the boy_ ―" (Leta gritted her teeth) "―is to blame. My Leta would never involve herself in something this stupid, and put her fellow classmate at risk."

How was she supposed to know that stupid Abraxas Malfoy had followed them into the Forbidden Forest? If she had any idea that the arrogant prick was with them, she would be tempted to allow the Jarvey to mash his face for a moment ― only for a moment! ― before giving up the whole blasted experiment. Everyone knew that Jarveys were volatile beasts. When Abraxas had sauntered into the clearing and began taunting Newt for his sensitive nature and antagonising Leta for "slumming it", the Jarvey had begun screeching so violently that Leta's ears had rung. To make matters worse, Abraxas mocked Mun-Mun (a name Leta promptly gifted the Jarvey for the sounds it made when Newt tickled him with a pear), pointing fingers and laughing wildly. Mun-Mun had gnashed its gigantic teeth at him, and to put it bluntly, Abraxas was no longer laughing.

Frankly, she was sick to death of his sort.

"Now, wait a minute ―"

"Perhaps if your son had a father figure to look up to, this would have never happened!"

Everyone took an intake of breath so sharp at the low blow that it would have cut their noses to ribbons. Leta's jaw hung open, the back of her neck heating up. She'd met his mother a couple of times during the summer when the two of them would decide to meet at his place. Although it had been difficult at first, she'd earned Leta's respect by making Leta earn hers; Leta liked her ruddy face and her kind eyes. She liked the way she almost always smelled like the Earth; Newt's mother was fiercely independent, and she knew that she was the kind of person her people would look down for for not being the woman they thought women should be.

He had offered to show her his mother's prized hippogriffs and she had immediately accepted, albeit a tad too fast, judging by the look on Newt's face. Leta had been so embarrassed at her undignified response that she settled for staring at her dragon-hide boots, curling her toes and pushing her nails against the soles until they hurt. But Newt had been so pleased that she accepted it (although it did not stop her from overthinking about it in the shower several years later). She wished she could say that her motives were purely hippogriff-related, but that would not be entirely honest.

That summer, her father had been getting worse; the evidence found itself on Leta's body. But not her face. Never her face.

She just wanted a day she could call her own, without the pit fermenting at the base of her spine to weigh her ankles down to the ground. She'd be abandoning her siblings, but since their father never touched them with his fists, they'd be alright until she got back. Moreover, she'd wanted to meet his family ― she'd had a fascination with them ever since Clarisse had entered the fray. Perhaps it was selfish, but she'd also wanted to get to know Newt more. She wanted to know what made him smile, what made him proud, what made him happy.

She dared to take a look at him, and regretted it almost immediately. His eyes shone, and his jaw was locked and his fingers clutched his Hogwarts school trousers so that lines grew from his pockets. _He was trying not to cry_. A soreness built up in her throat, and her tongue was too big for her mouth. Leta's eyes flickered up to her father who had not looked at her the entire time he'd been here. Why did he have to be like this?

 **..**

When everything was done and dusted, and the buzzing noise had receded from her ears, a dull throbbing took over at the corner of her eyebrow ― a starburst of pain; a pick axe on ice. Leta's abdomen was hollow, and her legs walked for her, the tip of her shoe dragging on the stone floor. She took quick little breaths, her lungs backing away gently from the pleural membranes stuck to her insides.

Thankfully, the castle was devoid of its familiar chatter. No doubt the Hogwarts students were lazing around on the meadows, or practising duelling in the courtyard to make use of the natural rocks which behaved as covers for poking shoulders. Summer time was quickly approaching, and although exams had not begun yet, and ideally students should be studying (it should be noted that numerous Ravenclaws had shut themselves away in the library, dragging a couple of Gryffindors with them), Leta knew that the weekend symbolised hours of relaxation for her classmates.

If it were up to her, Leta would have used the secret passageway into the Hufflepuff's tower that Newt and herself had discovered by chance in their second year. They had never used it, perhaps because they thought the other would be aggravated at the intrusion into their private space ― they never knew that the other secretly hoped for it.

Besides, at the deepest recesses of Leta's mind, she knew what type of scandal would ensue if people caught a boy and a girl in dormitories. She knew what her father would do to her if he heard those rumours, at the shame that would plague the Lestrange family, especially since she was the remaining heir. Leta needed to be a paragon of virtue.

A cool breeze tickled the tips of her ears. She sat down on the stone steps and wrapped her arms around her legs so that her knees touched her chest. She sniffled, trying to swallow away the ache that built up in her throat.

Footsteps resounded behind her, but she did not look back because, all of a sudden, hot tears oozed out from her ducts. "This isn't fair," she whispered, and a thunk echoed through the corridor as a suitcase was placed down besides her.

Before she could control it, frothing heat built up in her body, and Leta stood up and jabbed a finger on his chest. " _What the hell_ ," she hissed, her voice trembling, trying to see through her blurred landscape, "how could you do that?"

He sighed, the sound soft and resigned. "Leta ―"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "don't you Leta me."

"I ―"

"Why would you do that? _Why? Why_?" Her voice rose in hysteria. "It was all my fault and you knew it. Why would you ―" she gave him a slight shove, and he staggered back, his head down, "―do something _this_ stupid? Why couldn't you let me take the blame?"

He stayed silent, and somehow that made it worse. She wanted him to stand his ground, be angry. She wanted him to shout at her, shake her, so that she could thoroughly hate him for doing what he did in peace. She wanted him to spit harsh words at her so that something else would fill the cavities in her body, instead of this . . . this _heaviness_ that shackled her heart to the stone beneath her feet.

"They wouldn't have expelled me, Newt. Father would have protected me," she tasted iron in her mouth at the irony of that statement, "we would have been fine, if you had just let me tell the truth!"

Silence.

" _Answer me_!"

Newt flinched, and dug his hands into his sides, blinking rapidly, as Leta took a sharp inhale and stumbled back, guilt immediately churning within her, turning all her organs into mush. The air between them was too tenuous for her to apologise, so she settled for placing her head in her hands, piercing the sides of her face with her nails so that she could feel a different kind of pain, one that stung more than this.

She wanted to cry.

"You wouldn't have been fine," he spoke so softly that Leta thought she'd imagined it over the blood rushing through her head. "The moment you'd get home, he would've hurt you."

The world staggered to a halt.

Leta looked up from her palms, her eyes flickering as she took him in. She didn't understand. She didn't want to understand.

He didn't say anything else. He just stared at her morosely. Her heart clenched, and she wanted to fall down to the ground because of what he'd given up ― for her.

"B-but I'm not ―"

 _I'm not worthy_.

Words would not suffice, and she had never been good at those. So she half-ran, half-walked forward and reached for him, standing on the tips of her toes. He was warm, and when he wrapped his around her, gingerly moving her to him, she could feel the momentum of his breathing, his rib cage expanding and deflating. Leta burrowed her face into the place between the nook of his neck and his shoulder, trying to stabilise her erratics. What she had done to deserve him and his undying loyalty to her, she did not know. They swayed together with the hymn of the wind, and it was then that Leta realised that she did not want to let go.

Three words, susurrated by lovers in a smoke-filled room, or whispered between parents and their children before tucking them into their beds, or spoken plainly by best friends in the midsummer. These groups of letters, strung together by the tethers between the truest hearts, shaking with anticipation. They grew, swimming from the base of her voice-box to the tip of her tongue, ready to lift up and dance through the air, amalgamating with the reality of the world. Ready to be spoken, flitting from ear to ear, twisting into amber honey. Her mouth was next to his ear, and they would have been the only people in the universe, a galaxy of starlight and luminescence.

But images of whitened knuckles, and bruised bodies shone starkly in her mind. Crawling, wretched things reaching for the bathroom sink to spit out globs of crimson. Long-sleeved sweaters, and thick black stockings in the hottest of summers. The click of doors as she made sure Eir and Cor wouldn't wake up from the hissed noises that whistled through her teeth. Acid-strewn words drilling into her until it left her breathless, until she simply laid there, idly watching as a dark rivulet ran into the threads of a Persian carpet her step-mother would surely blame her for.

Worthless.

The sentiment was one that repaid her with blood. Always.

So they stepped back when Professor Dumbledore reached them, a gentle reminder that Mrs. Scamander was waiting for her son. A hurried "promise to write" was uttered, and it was too fast, _everything was too fast_ , ignorant of the unspoken words between the two friends. There he was, bending slightly to pick up his suitcase, and following Professor Dumbledore, not after throwing a backward glance in her direction. He walked quickly away from her, trying to keep astride their teacher's long limbs, and then, he was gone. Disappeared into nothingness with a pop beyond the gates, taking something so infinitesimally intrinsic from the girl that she bent forward, as if the energy had been sapped from her.

Leta Lestrange was alone. As she had always been.

* * *

 _This chapter was an absolute pleasure for me to write. Leta comes naturally to me._

 _My intention is not to portray her necessarily as a hero, or a villain. I just wanted her to be human. Moreover, there is a paradox through this entire chapter: she thinks herself incapable of affection, maybe even above needing it, but it is the one thing she craves most of all. Newt, who, for all intents and purposes, knows her the best, is definitely one of the people who she allows herself to be vulnerable to. Ultimately, and tragically, she is unable to be honest with him due to her integral fears of worthlessness, and her experiences with familial love (at this point, are her primary sources of love) since she has only been taught the language of the physical hurt, and not of words. This miscommunication between the two characters shall be prevalent in their distance, and you can interpret their bond as platonic or romantic. It's up to you._

 _Hope all of you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you think (and hope for her future!) of the inside glimpse into the complicated mess of emotions that is Leta!_


End file.
